Older women make good lovers

So says the T. G. Sheppard song.

He's right. Let's face it; if you are a young, vital woman, you probably wrinkle up your nose at a younger man having sex with a woman in her fifties or sixties. Think about it, though; when exactly to you plan to stop having sex? On your fortieth, or forty-fifth birthday - suddenly, never to look back.

Bullfeathers.

Which brings me to my next argument - women live longer than men, so therefore there are beaucoup women out there who are interested in sex, but no longer have a partner. Imagine re-entering the dating world at fifty-five. It has to be difficult.

There's always masturbation. And it is a veritable lifesaver for many women (and men), there's no mistaking that. But interestingly enough, recent scientific research has identified older women who mastrubate frequently - one to two times a day or more - with high strung, nervous personalities. Just imagine, your dear old twittery, nervous Auntie Gladys bringing herself to orgasm several times a day. Contrary to your long held opinion that she would faint at the sight of a man's bad thing, perhaps she secretly desires to take it deep and rough, balls and all.

While admittedly, weather takes its toll on a woman's skin, much of it is seldom if ever exposed and is, therefore, young and soft. Don't believe me? Take a look at any mature sex website and see for yourself. Oh, I agree that gravity has an effect, too. So what? Lay your head in your older lover's lap and gravity will put those nipples right where you want them.

Stop and consider this: Almost ninety percent of 60 year old women would be interested in taking a lover under the right conditions (e.g.: if they were widdowed, etc.) and virtually all of them would prefer the lover being fifteen or more years younger than them.

Think of it as your civic duty. When she is moaning in extacy, you can take pride in the fact that she will be desparately grateful. And when you reach your climax, the age of the receptical into which you ejaculate will matter not at all.

I haven't named a name in a while

Terry.

I told you I would name names. And - again - if you want to contact me, I'll give you her last name.

One of the most fun things you can do it to find a photo of an old girlfriend on a porn site 'Hot or Not' page.

I was just casually looking, giving most all of the photos a 9, when I sat up quickly. There, in her bedroom, dress pulled up and panties pulled down - and smiling broadly - was Terry. While the photo took in a good part of the room as well as the subject at hand, the resolution wasnt all that good, but I could easily tell her pubes were heavily forested.

I have no idea when the photo was taken, and it could have been listed by a lot of different people, but I expect it was posted by her current husband, most likely without her consent. Not that she would care if someone saw her pussy, not in real life, anyway, but she is the manager of a state office, in charge of nearly one hundred people, and the state may take a dim view of it.

Looking at her bush brought back many fond memories. And not inexplicably, my mouth began to water.

Christy

I looked up when the man called his coworker. "Christy."

I turned in time to see her reach up, over her head, her short top rising up several inches above the top of her jeans. Enough to see the waistband and the rear portion of her thong. She was unbelievably tiny - maybe 5-2, 90 pounds. Not anorexic, just tiny. Immediately, I wondered what it would be like. My favorite position, back against the headboard, with her on me. I guess I'd try it, but there's no way in the world it would be be pleasurable. Tight is fine, this would be close to impossible.

Later, while watching TV, I saw the usual diet ads - "I lost 30 pounds in six weeks..." More's the pity; I invariably like the before photo best.

Hairy?

Shaved is good. Especially in a very youthful looking woman, shaved is very good.

Jill, for example. When Jill was 25, she could pass for much younger. MUCH. Small, with tiny breasts, it required no stretch of the imagination for me to join in her favorite roleplay - taking her cherry. All told, I guess I took Jill's virginity several dozen times, so it made sense for her to keep her pubes shaved and silky smooth.

Still, I have never gotten over the thrill of touching bush when I slid my hands between some willing woman's legs. It seemed like I would never live long enough to be in that situation, and when I was - well, it was the first of a series of fantastic events.

Having established the fact that - for me, at least, hairy is best, how hairy is hairy enough? Will trimmed do?

I recall when I worked in a beach shop as a teenager seeing a heart-stopping vision walk in. Dark tan, dark hair, full breasts, tremendous ass... Clad in a purple bikini with gold rings holding the front and back halves of the bottom together, and another one between the left and right cup. I evidently stared, because I clearly remember the metal was tarnished. But the thing that almost literally stopped my heart was the sight of dark pubic hair curling around the crotchal area.

Since then, I have heard that Prince Charles once wished he was a tampon, obviously deep inside Camilla. Forget the tampon - I would have given anything to have been that lucky bit of triangular fabric in contact with that lady's bush.

Hairy enough - certainly unshaved or untrimmed. Preferably - like the lady of my story - with enough hair to 'accidentally' escape confinement. In the off season? I would prefer my lady totally unshaved - legs, pits, etc. - and with a forest of dark hair under her skirt, waiting for my eager face.

I hate rubbers

I hate rubbers.

When I was a teenager, I would occasionally visit my neighborhood gas station where, for a quarter, I could buy a rubber. Unlubricated; I guess you were supposed to supply your own Vaseline. Taking my treasure to a private place, I would unzip and then unroll it onto my not-yet-grown manhood. The tightness actually felt kind of good to me, and assured me that I wasn't so small that I would get lost in it. Then I would masturbate, filling the end of the rubber with hot semen, and toss it unceremoniously in the woods somewhere.

Being familiar with the application of rubbers, and the various reasons for their existance, I nevertheless lost my virginity rubberless, and proceded to poke Sharon a couple of dozen more times without the benefit of latex protection. She was pregnant, as previously noted, so I didn't have that to worry about, but it's a wonder I didn't come down with the clap - given her well-known promiscuity. But I didn't.

As some philosopher once said, " A hard dick has no conscience." Or self control, either.

When Sharon moved away, following the birth of her child and my introduction to the wonders of breast milk, she in essence gave me to her cousin, Dee. Being married and the mother of all the children she desired, Dee had taken the precaution of having her tubes tied. Which, considering all the times I ejaculated into her birth canal, probably was a good idea. Again, no rubbers needed.

At some point in my sexual development, I actually began to date girls who weren't interested in getting knocked up, so a box of rubbers - lubricated Trojans this time - in the trunk of my car became standard equipment. It was then that I learned how much I hated them. After diddling Sharon, Dee, and a couple of other older women rubber free, I felt like a caged bird. I also realized that rubbers seemed to be made for mini-men. They were so tight I could barely get them on, and when unrolled, didn't extend all the way back. Far enough to pull my hairs out by the handfull, but not all the way. Now, I have to admit that enjoy women tinkering with my manhood for any reason, even installing a rubber, but that is the only part of the process with any pleasurable overtones whatsoever, and that usually turned to a four-handed operation, what with trying to get it started and all.

What's in a name?

I don't mean the 'rose by any other name' thing. I mean there are certain females bearing certain names that have had a disproportionate amount of impact on my life.

Two, to be exact: Donna and Tina.

Donna - I lived next to one and worked with several others. While the former turned out to be a bull dyke, when we were in high school, she was like everybody else: horny. She wasn't awfully pretty, to say the least, but she was willing, and that is even better.

As to the rest of the Donnas, with whom I worked, they pretty much dedicated themselves to flashing as much cleavage as possible and driving me crazy in the process. One it particular delighted in bending over her desk while talking to me, the canyon between her mammoth mammaries drawing me like a magnet. I learned from her that 55 can be as good as two 22 1/2s.

I'll get to Tina.

Linda on my mind

Senior trip. A bus full of hormones, male and female. Given an approximate 50/50 ratio, Quasimoto could at least cop a feel.

Outward bound, enroute to Gettysburg, guys sat with guys and girls with girls. After all, there was a lot of foolishness and laughter and kidding around to get done.

Homeward bound, it was dark. After much seat swapping, we were paired up. Who had been dating whom seemed oddly irrevalent; being together all day in such close proximity had resulted in totally new pairings and not a few breakups.

On the way up, I had my eye on Marian, a brown-eyed beauty of uncertain racial background, and posessed of wonderfully large breasts. We flirted briefly but I found myself seated next to one of my girl buddies by the name of Linda. We had been in the same class for four years and, while we had never even thought of dating, we had enjoyed many, many chats, phone calls, and notes in class. I was surprised at the way things turned out, but even more so by the intense arousal she was inspiring in me.

Linda was relatively tall, dark haired, and fairly average in shape - perhaps a few pounds above her ideal weight, but not much. Her one distinguishing feature were her breasts, which were not very big for her size. This I observed on my own, but she had confided the same thing to me dozens of times; she wanted big boobs and had little more than small mounds.

Darkness. I don't know what came over me, or us, because all I could think of was Linda. Nothing specific, just her as a whole, and wanting to feel, touch, caress, kiss, fondle the whole package.

Forget the fake yawn and stretch, the accidental arm around the shoulder. I went straight to the target - without any preface at all, I began to unbutton her blouse. This earned me a kiss, which I enjoyed while sliding my hand under Linda's padded bra.

She was right; her breast wasn't very big. Her nipple wasn't very big either, but it was firm and erect and obviously enjoyed being touched. After a few minutes of nipple teasing, I withdrew my hand and placed it between her legs. Again, no resistance. In fact, she slid down some in her seat and spread her legs. The rubbing of my hand against her vagina, even through her jeans and panties, soon had her very hot. She french kissed me roughly and - as her orgasm caused her to tremble spasmodically - she placed her hand between my legs.

This is how legends begin. Heedless of our classmates watching us, she unzipped my pants and bent low. I was pretty much out of it, but even so, I saw what half a dozen of our friends saw: when she came back up, she was licking her lips.